To Raise a Prince
by Shannypants
Summary: "Keeping the Waynes under his watchful gaze—an action he had made utterly central to his existence. A practice so commonplace, so painfully ordinary, that nothing about tonight stood out in the least." Following the death of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, Alfred is left with a harrowing task-to raise the broken child that was left behind. R&R Please!:)
1. Chapter 1

**TO RAISE A PRINCE **

***CHAPTER 1***

It had been a peaceful day at Wayne Manor—an occurrence that was not only rare, but one which Alfred considered much-needed. The phone had been ringing off the hook of late, with each and every member of Gotham's so-called 'elite' wishing to inform Master Wayne exactly what they did and did not like about the city's new Wayne-sponsored public transportation system.

Thus, when the last of the callers had received their replies and well-wishes from the Master himself, and after the charity banquet two nights past, Alfred's job had quieted down considerably. The Master and Mrs. Wayne were going to take Bruce out to see an opera tonight, and although they had gladly invited Alfred along, he had declined. The past few days had left him remarkably drained, and a night to spend in the solitude of the empty manor was perhaps just what he needed.

So, at about six o'clock, Alfred saw the family on their way. It is a moment he has reflected on perhaps a thousand times, recalling every instant in surreal but vivid detail.

He recalls helping Mrs. Wayne with her elegant coat, as well as the kiss she planted on his cheek before moving to her husband's side.

"Goodnight, Alfred. Get some rest tonight," she smiled, and Alfred could not help but smile in return.

"Of course, Madame. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning."

He recalls handing the Master his long black coat, bidding him goodnight.

"Goodnight, Alfred. I trust you'll hold down the fort while we're gone. Right, Bruce?" Alfred smirked as he watched father and son exchange a knowing wink.

He recalls the way Bruce threw his arms around his waist, hugging him goodbye. "Goodnight, Alfred. See you at breakfast!" Alfred wrapped his arms around the small boy in return, ruffling the messy shock of auburn hair, when the excitable boy piped up once more. "Oh, and Alfred, you can't forget that tomorrow is the day you promised you'd take me and Rachel to the museum! Aren't you excited?"

Alfred recalls sharing an amused look with his employers, as they all chuckled at the bright-eyed, adventurous prince of Gotham. Gazing down at the grinning child before him, he straightened the child's suit jacket. "Of course, Master Bruce," he replies, and he means every word of it, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

He recalls that he is met with a smile, and hand-in-hand, Mrs. Wayne and Master Bruce head out to the awaiting limo.

He recalls that Master Wayne follows behind them, but stops for a moment at the door.

"Alfred, thank you for everything you do for us." Thomas Wayne rested a hand on the shoulder of his butler and friend. "This family wouldn't be where it is if you weren't a part of it."

The two gazes locked, and Alfred noted the sincerity that marked his employer and friend's features.

Nodding graciously, Alfred replied. "Much obliged, Master Wayne. There's no other family I'd be more honored to be a part of."

With a last appreciative glance, Thomas Wayne turned to meet his wife and son in the car. Alfred stood in the doorframe, ignoring the night air's wintry chill. As he had made a habit of doing, he watched as the vehicle trailed away from the manor, towards the bustling lights of the city, waiting until it had passed out of his sight.

Keeping the Waynes under his watchful gaze—an action he had made utterly central to his existence. A practice so commonplace, so painfully _ordinary, _that nothing about tonight stood out in the least.

But when Alfred remembers this night, it is always with a tear, and the image that strikes him first is always that of the limo driving away.

He recalls that it was the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

**TO RAISE A PRINCE**

***CHAPTER 2***

It was only about half-past nine when the call came. Alfred remembered because he had just started watching the nightly news, but seemed to have drifted off within the first few minutes.

Never was he so thankful for being a light sleeper.

Initially, he was sure that it would be someone from the hospital, calling to alert Master Wayne of the changing condition of one of his patients. Or perhaps Master Wayne himself calling, wishing to tell Alfred something he needed to have done by the time they returned.

When he answered the telephone, the last person he expected to be speaking to was a member of the GCPD.

Although he has trouble remembering the exact words of the call, he knows; it's meaning has ingrained itself in his memory.

"Hello, Wayne Residence speaking."

A young, solemn voice, tearful even. Sergeant Gordon. Words. Or, to Alfred's ears, puffs of air with meaning attached. Because surely, the man had to be mistaken.

Something about a mugging gone wrong. _Murder._ Something about temporary guardianship. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne—spoken of in the past tense.

Alfred knew what he was supposed to take some meaning away from this, but all he knew was that his chest had grown unbearably heavy and he waited with baited breath for the officer to mention Bruce.

"Sir, we have him here at the station. Would you be willing to come down? He's in poor shape, as you can imagine. He hasn't spoken a word since we picked him up-except to describe the suspect, and to ask that we immediately call you."

Alfred shook himself out of his daze, his voice faltering slightly in spite of himself. "Of course, sir. I'll be there presently. Please let Bruce know I'm on my way."

"I most definitely will, Mr. Pennyworth. My condolences to the both of you."

"Thank you."

With that, Alfred hung up and the receiver and rushed to the door as quickly as his shaking legs would take him. His breath felt short and forced, and as he loaded himself into the Rolls and started up the engine, the words that the officer had spoken began to feel just the slightest more real. He was going to pick up Bruce, young Master Bruce, from the police station, where he waited, cold and alone, for someone to claim him. The road blurred before him as his face grew hot with tears. He would raise young Bruce from now on, he supposed, just as the boy's parents had once discussed with him.

He thought back to Master Wayne's statement. "If anything were to ever happen to us, Alfred, there is no one that could give Bruce a more loving home. It is clear that he loves you, and that you love him. There's no one we trust more."

Without hesitation, Alfred had agreed utterly. He loved Bruce as if he were his own son—he treasured every smile and bedtime story, at the same time trying not to spoil the child. Once more, the thought of Bruce waiting for him broke his heart. The prince of Gotham, an orphan. He instinctively pressed harder on the accelerator.

It was only about fifteen minutes later that Alfred found himself parking across the street from the GCPD, fighting his way through the growing sea of paparazzi and news anchors that were swarming the area.

Apparently, more people recognized him as the Wayne family butler than he ever would have expected. As he pushed his way angrily across the lawn, he shoved away microphones coming at him from all directions, keeping his eyes fixed on the building's front doors.

"Mr. Pennyworth, do you suspect that the perpetrator had any connection to the mob?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Pennyworth, but could predict how this tragedy might affect the future of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Mr. Pennyworth, how are you feeling right now?"

Alfred cringed but kept walking. How was he feeling? As if someone had torn his heart out of his chest. As if his family had been shattered. Oh, that's right, it had.

At the door, Alfred was met by the police commissioner, Commissioner Loeb, a tall African-American fellow with hard but well-meaning eyes. The man greeted him with a firm handshake and a solemn nod. Taking Alfred into his office, he explained what they had found at the scene of the crime—the bloody pearls that were being held as evidence, and the news that a team had just radioed in that they had taken the suspect, a certain Joe Chill, into custody, where he would remain until trial. He explained how Bruce had been kneeling between the bodies, which were both pronounced dead at the scene. When the police had arrived, the boy had not even budged refusing to leave his parents' sides. Commissioner Loeb explained that it was only through the gentle coaxing of Sergeant Gordon that they were able to get the boy to the station without issue. Gordon had been sitting with the boy ever since.

As he followed the commissioner to the office where Bruce was being held, Alfred felt an ominous pounding in his heart, and his feet felt as if they had suddenly been weighed down with lead. How could he possibly accept this? A murderer, a cold-blooded street urchin, left to sit peacefully in a cell somewhere when a family had been torn apart. A child, eight years-old, left to watch his parents bleed out in front of him. Alfred swallowed the frustration threatening to bubble up inside him, deciding that now was not the time. He would feel later—right now, Bruce was his foremost concern.

When he first saw the boy, he nearly lost his lunch.

There, in the middle of the cold metallic room, sitting in a small chair alongside a desk, was not the Bruce Wayne that lived at Wayne Manor, the heir to a multi-billion dollar empire. In his place sat the eight year-old victim of a violent crime, cruelly stripped of his innocence. Dark hazel eyes stared too wide as Alfred entered, tiny hands clutching tighter at his father's coat. Sergeant Gordon was still crouched patiently on the ground, one hand resting on Bruce's knee. In the few steps it took Alfred to move closer, he noticed the way the hazel eyes flickered uncertainly to Gordon's, as if the boy were looking to be guided into what he should do next.

Alfred watched the exchange in pure bafflement. Gordon, on the other hand, gave Bruce a pat on the knee and a sad, comforting smile. The man whispered something to Bruce, and the boy looked significantly more at ease afterward, but the only words that Alfred could make out were "It's okay." With one last glance at Bruce, the young sergeant pulled the coat more tightly around the boy's small frame before rising to his feet and excusing himself from the room, tears welling in his eyes.

Alfred took this as his cue. Stepping forward, he moved to rest a light hand on the child's shoulder, but withdrew quickly. Bruce had flinched violently, as if burned. Fearful eyes glanced nervously up at Alfred, and then the boys gaze returned to his hands, which toyed compulsively with the sleeve of the trenchcoat. Dumbfounded, Alfred reminded himself that the boy had just witnessed an act more horrible than any other, and that his trust in humanity was bound to have been shaken. Perhaps a different approach would be more effective.

Crouching down slowly before the child, Alfred chewed on his lower lip—it was not often he did not know what to say. But there was nothing he could say to ease the boy's sorrow; nothing he could do to take the pain away, no matter how dearly he wished to.

Drawing a steadying breath, he kept his voice soft. "Master Bruce," he paused, watching as startled hazel orbs flickered in his direction, just now realizing that Alfred was in the room. "Would it be right if went home now, sir?"

The young eyes met his, and Alfred fought back tears as he was met with a quick nod.

It was several minutes later, several minutes of agonized stop-and-go before Alfred and Sergeant Gordon had managed to get Bruce past the photographers and into the backseat of the black Rolls. Alfred thanked Gordon repeatedly for his kindness, sighing in relief as he started the engine. At long last, they were on their way home.

The car ride back to Wayne Manor was utterly silent, save for the occasional sharp intake of breath from the backseat. For there were no words to be said, and Alfred sensed that Bruce felt the same. The silence was oddly soothing after the night's tumult—each could almost imagine that it was just a normal ride back to the manor, that nothing had been knocked askew in their idyllic life.

Alfred parked the Rolls inside the cavernous garage, opening the door ajar for his young master, waiting. After a few seconds of delay revealed that Bruce had no intention of moving, or rather no sense that the vehicle had stopped, Alfred bit back another wave of sorrow. The too-wide eyes stared as blankly ahead as they had at the station, and Alfred tried not to imagine the images flickering on their surface. He leaned in gently, slowly unbuckling the car seat so as not to startle the child further. He focused on making his voice as steady and gentle as possible, cursing how weak it sounded to his own ears. "Let's get ourselves inside, sir, hmmm?" He held out an open hand, silently praying that Bruce would take it.

He did.

The two entered the manor hand-in-hand, Bruce stiffly breaking the contact at the door. Alfred inwardly cringed in shock as Bruce marched neatly up the stairs, turning the corridor to his room. Alfred stood thoughtfully, mind painfully torn between whether he should follow after the boy or give him space.

Luckily, Bruce chose for him.

Not more than a few minutes after turning down the corridor, Bruce reappeared at the top of the stairs, wringing his hands in near-panic. "A-Alfred," he called, and Alfred was up the stairs in an instant, heart pounding in worry.

When he witnessed the sight before him, he felt his heart break for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Bruce stood before his bedroom door, staring into the pitch blackness of the unlit room. He turned towards Alfred, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "Alfred…"

And Alfred understood, stepping carefully past the young boy and flicking on the lamp on the other side of the room. The room illuminated, and Alfred heard Bruce release the breath that he had been holding.

He looked back over his shoulder, gesturing to Bruce that it was safe to enter. "Not to worry, sir."

Sitting on the chair next to the bed, Bruce once again settled into a blank stare. Alfred, in the meantime, opened the young master's dresser drawers and retrieved a new set of pajamas. By the time Alfred turned back around, Bruce was asleep where he sat, passed out under the sheer weight of his grief and exhaustion. Alfred had to admit, he was afraid that the boy wouldn't sleep at all tonight, but he supposed that the child's body simply could not bear being awake any longer. He crossed the room quietly, beginning to change the boy into his PJ's.

To this day, he still wonders how he maintained his composure up until this point—for when he saw the spatters of red that marred the once-white cuffs of the child's suit, he let out a muffled sob, though not for his fallen employers.

He sobbed because although the Waynes were gone, so was their son.

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! Please, keep them coming—they make my day3 Updates coming soon**** (Oh, and if any of you guys like this exploration of the Bruce/Alfred father/son-type relationship, you should check out my other story "Cracked." Updates coming on that soon as well****)**


	3. Chapter 3

**TO RAISE A PRINCE**

***CHAPTER 3***

A typical morning in the Wayne household consisted of this:

The day began at five, when Master Wayne's alarm went off, waking himself and his wife. The physician had to be at the hospital by six, so there was always some sense of urgency as he hurriedly bid everyone a good day and rushed out the door. Mrs. Wayne would occasionally fall back asleep, but more often than not, she stayed awake, already beginning to arrange what charities and various foundations she needed to contact and check up on for the day.

At seven, Alfred would draw open the curtains, letting sunlight flood the halls. Alfred and Mrs. Wayne would then alternate turns in trying to get the youngest Wayne up for school. Usually, after several failed attempts, Mrs. Wayne would take over entirely, and Alfred would head down to fix breakfast and pack Bruce's lunch, often humming to himself as he went.

Several minutes later, mother and a very groggy son would make their way down to the table, where the three of them would dine on Alfred's infamous cooking. Then, Mrs. Wayne would give her son a hug and a kiss, telling him to behave as she did so. Alfred would drive the boy to school.

But Bruce would not be going to school today.

When Alfred awoke, he found that he was sitting in the very chair that Bruce had fallen asleep in before Alfred had lifted him into bed. Alfred stretched his aching limbs, memories of the night bombarding his mind. Everything felt foggy, surreal to say the least, as if the entire house had fallen out of time and space. He stole a quick glance at his Rolex—it was only a quarter past seven. He swallowed hard—he would have to make the funeral arrangements today. He took a shaky breath, straightened, and looked up, only to be greeted by an empty, unmade bed, with pajamas neatly folded on the pillowtop.

For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, Alfred's heart came to a dead stop. Where had Bruce gone? He stepped into the corridor, listening.

"Master Bruce?" He called into the darkness, pulling the curtains up as he goes. "Master Bruce?"

No answer. Instead, he heard soft voices downstairs, coming from the family room, and when he arrived, it was to Bruce, already fully-dressed, sitting on the couch watching cartoons. An eight year-old boy seeking normalcy through the only means he had left. Alfred hesitated for a moment, and remained standing.

"Master Bruce?" he posed it as a question, praying that the boy would answer. "Would you care for some breakfast?"

Silence. Then a tiny shaking of the head. A whisper, barely audible."No, thanks."

Alfred nodded, taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa—not too close, but not too far. "Very well, sir." He would let the boy get away with not eating for a little while longer, and he would try again later. For now, he sat quietly, watching animated figures scuffle with one another on the screen. Every so often, he would glance sideways at Bruce, who sat, still as ever, staring. The expressionless mask that painted the young face was almost frightening.

It was then that Alfred excused himself from the room, and spent the next hour making the most agonizing phone calls of his life. By the end, the funeral was in order, all the details worked out, and the last will and testament had been discussed, although that particular conversation was far from over. That being said, one thing was clear, much to Alfred's relief—the Waynes had their wishes for Alfred to raise Bruce spelled out without question.

Following these grueling calls, Alfred rounded the corridor, heading back to the family room. He sucked in a sharp breath-if it were even possible, he felt as emotionally drained as he had last night. He continued to move down the hall, and was just about to round the final corner when he stopped dead.

A shadow.

He sighed, knowing that Bruce had been eavesdropping. Not that it wasn't his business, by any means, but Alfred had hoped that by leaving the room he could spare the child additional pain.

But Bruce was a curious boy—even yesterday couldn't change that.

Thus, Alfred found himself faced once more with those haunted eyes. Only this time, anger radiated from the tiny figure, shoulders tense and fist balled. The child looked painstakingly like he had been holding his breath, as if he were about to burst, even, and Alfred could already feel a lump forming in his throat. He waited, allowing Bruce to say what he needed.

When the child spoke, his voice dripped with accusation and frustration.

"What were you doing?"

Alfred took a moment to consider what the boy meant. After all, he knew that Bruce knew exactly what he had been doing. But perhaps Bruce needed to hear it aloud to make it real.

"Making the necessary arrangements, sir."

The icy stare hardened, though they knew full well Alfred's meaning, and the boy looked closer to bursting than ever. Each word was spat, an uncharacteristic amount of hostility bubbling to the surface. "What…kind of arrangements?"

Alfred softened, knowing that the boy would not be satisfied until he had heard his greatest fear—his _horror_-verbalized. "…Funeral arrangements, sir…" he steadied himself with a shaking breath, "…two days from now."

Alfred cringed inwardly at the reaction—perhaps this seemed too soon to the boy—for Bruce's eyes were now like saucers, the anger seeming to have evaporated completely, shifting and losing itself amongst a thousand other emotions. In its place had returned sorrow and fear, and Alfred followed as Bruce nodded stiffly, then resumed his place on the sofa.

Faithful as always, Alfred resumed his place as well, and once again, the two sat in silence, only dimly aware of the images flickering on the television in front of them.

It was not until two episodes later that Alfred chanced a word—anything to keep the boy from his obvious brooding. Perhaps if he could only get the boy to focus on something other than the horrors that lurked within his mind…he sighed. "Are you feeling hungry yet, sir?"

"No."

Alfred recognized the lie but brushed it off—he would prepare the two of them some lunch anyway. But first—"Would you care to play some dominoes, Master Bruce?" Dominoes had always been one of the child's favorites.

But Bruce shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the television, his aim at avoidance clear. Alfred swallowed hard—now was not the time for formalities. "Bruce…" Again, he kept his voice softer than usual, more careful. Then he paused, waiting for the child to turn, though the young gaze avoided his.

"Bruce, please look at me."

The eyes hesitated a moment, as their owner likely tried to think of a way to escape. But Bruce relented, teary globes locking with Alfred's.

Neither moved, but Alfred sensed by the way that Bruce shifted in his seat that there was something immediate, some desperate worry eating at him through his grief.

"Bruce…"

Bruce gulped and began slowly, shaky voice determined to hide the trembling of his bottom lip. "What if…what if they take me away from you?" All signs of the stoic little boy from earlier had vanished, leaving raw emotion in their wake. "Or…" Bruce choked on the words, breaths becoming increasingly unsettled, and Alfred was on his feet, crouching in front of him, "What if _he_ gets you? You can't leave me too."

At this point, the boy had buried his face in his knees, his shoulders wracking with silent sobs. Alfred drew the panicked child close, his own stern face softening. Bruce was now buried in Alfred's neck, shaking without abandon into the older man's arms. "No, no, no, shhh." He drew soothing circles on the quivering back. "Bruce, listen to me. That…what happened was an act of pure evil…but that..." he tried to refrain from the fury that boiled inside him, "…that man…he's put away where he can't touch us now. Do you hear me?" He pulled the boy back slightly, wanting the boy to see in his face just how serious he was. "And if there is one thing, _one_ thing that I absolutely _need_ you to understand, it is that I will never, _ever _leave you; nor will I ever let anything happen to you. _Ever."_

To Alfred's relief, he could feel some of the tension leave the small muscles that rested beneath his hand, but they re-tensed quickly, and Bruce had re-buried his face in the crook of Alfred's neck. The older man had to strain to make out the almost inaudible, muffled whisper that followed.

"That's what they said, too."

Alfred's breath caught in spite of himself, and he withered, trying to work out an appropriate response. Unsurprisingly, every phrase that formed on his lips faltered, for he knew that in this instance, Bruce was unquestionably correct. He instead settled for tightening his arms around the boy, hoping beyond anything that it would make him feel safe. Or, at least, give him the illusion of safety. For if there was one thing that they had both learned from this event, it was that Gotham was not nearly as seamlessly grand as its skyline. It was tainted-corrupt in some of the worst ways possible. Quite the opposite of safe, indeed.

Shaking off these dark thoughts as best he could, Alfred nodded grimly, simply acknowledging the reality of what the boy had said. "I know…I know."

And with relief, Alfred found that this was enough, at least for now. Bruce remained tucked into his shoulder, but the clenched grip of the small hands on his cardigan had lost some of its desperation. Alfred isn't sure how long they sat like this, but when the child's voice broke the silence, he started.

"A-Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

He watched the boy's eyes flicker uncertainly, and the fists returned to nervously fussing with the threads of his sweater. "…When we went to great uncle Philip's funeral…his…his body was there…" he trailed off at the end, voice breaking.

Once again, Alfred drew the boy closer, catching what the boy was implying immediately. His heart had to have plummeted down to his feet by now. He carded a hand repeatedly through the auburn shock of hair. "Yes, sir."

"So then…I have to…"

Alfred cut him off mid-sentence, trying not to betray his surprise. "No, no, not at all," he soothed. This had to be very clear. "Bruce, look at me. No one will force you to do or see anything you don't want to, alright?"

Bruce nodded, releasing a visible sigh of relief.

The rest of the day seemed to move in slow motion for both of them. Alfred could only manage to get the child to eat half a grilled cheese and a small cookie before complaints about stomach pains had gotten the child off the hook. Fair enough. Alfred then spent the larger part of the afternoon alternating between pestering legal phone calls and routinely tidying up the house. He had demanded that the rest of the staff take the day off, and most had done so without any dispute, save Mrs. Dawes, who still offered to stop by with food.

But it was still so unreal—how could this have happened? It was his job to to hold the manor together-at least that's what he told himself. He made sure to stay in Bruce's general vicinity—close enough for the child to see that he was there, yet far enough away so as not to seem smothering. His heart tugged as he watched the boy shift idly from activity to activity, failingly trying to distract himself as well. First it was television, then books, then Legos…but Alfred could tell from the frustrated sigh behind him that nothing was working. The return of the blank expression, the mask that tried so deliberately to hide his pain, had also returned. Bythis time, Alfred wasn't even slightly surprised when Bruce refused dinner, but he offered it kindly nonetheless.

The old man also noted that the boy's migration had been restricted to the distance between the bedroom and the living room couch—no other space had been either touched or occupied, as if to preserve whatever sanctity these places had left.

It was 11 o'clock by the time Alfred noticed how late it had gotten. He looked over at Bruce, who was still staring purposefully at the TV. Clearing his throat, he remarked, "Master Bruce. I think it's high time we get you to bed." He paused, knowing Bruce would take a moment to respond.

"Yeah." With that, Bruce marched straight up the stairs without so much as looking at him. The auburn head stayed fixedly aimed at the floor.

Once again, Alfred trailed closely behind. As expected, Bruce stopped just short of the door, waiting for Alfred to turn on the light. Bruce changed into his pajamas at once, went to brush his teeth, and then crawled beneath the covers. Alfred was just about to switch off the light when he checked himself. "Lights on or off, Master Bruce?"

"On, please." The voice had lost the indifferent mask—it was once again the terrified voice of a traumatized child.

Alfred nodded, leaving the lamp on its dimmest setting. He then took a step towards the door but stopped himself. Here he was at a loss. Even though Alfred was always the first one to bid the youngest Wayne, he had never been the last. Either Master Wayne or Missus Wayne had always done that job, usually both. Bruce couldn't sleep without them, especially if they were at a 'grown-up' party, as he called them. Bruce was particularly insistent that his father always read to him before bed, and if the Master had been held up with his work at the hospital, Bruce would almost always await his return. Now Alfred wasn't sure what the child would want—perhaps he would want Alfred out of the picture altogether.

One look at Bruce lying on his back, staring at some unknown point on the ceiling and toying with the edge of his blanket, was all Alfred needed to make up his mind. He tried to put himself in the boy's shoes—of course Bruce would be terrified of being left alone, but even in the face of such a tragedy, his Wayne stubbornness would prevent him from ever admitting it directly.

Thus, Alfred crossed back over to the bed and tucked the comforter up around the boy's shoulders. Then, he ran a hand once more through the auburn shock, and bent down, pressing a light kiss atop the boy's head. Bruce relaxed visibly and suddenly, the mask was gone altogether, dissolved just as it had been earlier. Bruce scooted over, making room for Alfred to take a seat on the edge of the bed. The minute Alfred sat down, he began smoothing his thumb back and forth over a thin left arm. He could feel the muscles beneath his hand un-tensing, and the child's breaths began to even out. When he was sure that Bruce had fallen asleep at last, he reached over and switched off the lamp, easing his hand off the boy's arm.

But just as he stood up to leave, he felt a small hand grab at a fistful of his cardigan.

"Please don't go." It was said in such a breathy, urgent whisper that Alfred had initially wondered if he had imagined it.

He resumed his seat on the bed, and Bruce released his death-grip on his sweater. Instead, he rolled onto his side, wrapping his small arms around Alfred's much older one.

And in that moment, despite the uncomfortable angle at which his arm was being clung to, he knew.

He knew that this was the way the rest of his life would play out. Owed to this little boy, this hurt little boy who fought so hard to mask his pain.

Today, when he looks at the Batman, coming in from Gotham's worst, he remembers this night- Master Bruce falling asleep, wrapped around his arm as if life depended on it. Because no matter what mask the boy put on, how much he tried to pretend that he didn't need Alfred, Alfred saw right through it.

He knew better.

Because Bruce was not a vigilante any more than he was an arrogant playboy.

He was simply Bruce, the boy that Alfred had always known and loved.

And that was more than enough.

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews on the last chapters, everyone! I apologize for taking so long, but on the bright side, the next chapter is already in the works. As always, please take a moment to review**** You will literally make my entire day.**


	4. Chapter 4

**TO RAISE A PRINCE**

***Chapter 4***

Both Alfred and his young charge slept peacefully, Bruce wrapped around Alfred's arm, and Alfred leaning against the bedpost, until about 2AM.

That was when the nightmares started.

Alfred woke to screams unlike anything he had ever heard before. He started at once, trying to keep the blur of panic clouding his own mind at bay in order to focus on the child in front of him.

Bruce was flailing with all of his might, screaming until his throat was long past raw. Alfred jumped into action, calling out in as loud and level a voice as he could muster. "Bruce. BRUCE." He grabbed hold of the thrashing shoulders, trying to prevent the boy from hurting himself, but Bruce was fast, and Alfred was met with an unintentional punch in the face. He backed off for a moment, a hand rising to touch his smarting cheek, but quickly regained composure.

It was at this point that Alfred managed to get hold of the boy's arms, carefully locking him down at his sides. This, however, the feeling of being restrained, only seemed to panic the boy further, and Alfred loosened his grip, wishing that he could rescue the boy from the horrors he was reliving. "Bruce. Bruce," he called, and it was only then that he noticed that the boy's eyes were just now opening, although they did not seem to be registering anything. But Alfred kept his light grip, and after several moments, the violent thrashing abated, leaving only fear in its wake.

Easing off his grip, Alfred watched as Bruce scrambled off the bed and into the corner, tri;;ing over the entangled blankets as he went. Half-facing the wall as if to hide, he curled into himself, head covered with his arms. His small hands covered his ears and his eyes clenched shut. Alfred called out once more, and finally, Bruce looked at him.

Alfred's heart sunk. It was clear that whatever Bruce was seeing in front of him was not Alfred, for he cowered into himself further. "Please don't," he whispered.

Ignoring the creaking of his limbs, Alfred lowered himself onto the floor in front of the boy, leaving a space of several feet between them. "Look at me, Master Bruce. It's just Alfred." Slowly, he raised his hands eye-level in front of him-the last thing that he wanted was to make Bruce feel threatened. "I won't hurt you."

The child didn't seem to comprehend his words, or didn't believe them at any rate, because Alfred was met with only desperate whimpers. "Don't please, please don't." The boy's already-hitching breaths were turning into near-gasps, and Alfred was frantically worried that he would hyperventilate.

Alfred inched closer. "I won't, Bruce. I won't."

"Can you look at me, Bruce? I need you to look at me, sweetheart."

Slowly, cautiously, the boy's eyes locked with his own, and Alfred searched for any sign of recognition—not yet. But trust was a start. If he could just get Bruce to recognize him, Alfred was sure he would wake up…

The boy was so utterly entrenched in whatever world he was in; Alfred could almost see the images that he knew the boy's mind must be projecting. "Don't hurt me…"

"I won't, Bruce. Alfred's here. I would never, ever hurt you."

Alfred watched as some level of recognition flicked across the boy's features, but seemed to be forgotten in the same instant. Nevertheless, it was clear that the boy was starting to regard him as an ally. "He's gonna get me…"

"No, no, absolutely not, Bruce. No one's here. You're safe," he replied, inching ever closer. The boy shrunk back further into the wall. "Listen to me, Bruce. I need you to take a slow, deep breath, alright? I won't hurt you." The boy nodded, but kept his face hidden. "Just listen to how I'm breathing."

Alfred took a series of full breaths, infinitely relieved to see that Bruce was at least making an effort to match his own. "That's a good boy. That's my brave boy."

"Now I'm going to come a little closer, okay? I won't hurt you." He repeated the last sentence like a mantra for Bruce's sake as he shifted himself closer. The haunted eyes followed him as he went, widening in alarm when Alfred stopped right in front of him.

But Bruce still spoke from inside his dream, voice revealing every ounce of his young age. "I-I want my mom. C-can you help?"

Alfred blanched. Mrs. Wayne had always been the one to attend to Bruce's nightmares. He checked himself, searching for a response. At last he settled. "I will do whatever I can to help you, Bruce. Okay? I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise." Not waiting for a reply, Alfred reached out, placing a careful hand on either side of the boy's face. The boy cowered into himself once more, trembling, but Alfred eased the slender face up to look directly at his own.

"Why do we fall, Master Bruce?"

The clouded hazel eyes locked with his own, and Alfred watched as the nightmare loosened its unrelenting grasp. The boy pulled back, blinking rapidly as his eyes filled with tears.

In an instant, Alfred had lifted the child into his lap, and Bruce was once again coming to pieces in his arms, whole body shaking with silent, shuddering sobs. "I've got you. Alfred's got you." He rocked the child gently in his lap, shifting his weight so that Bruce's head rested on his shoulder. "Shhhh, I've got you." Grief poured off the child in waves, and Alfred failed to prevent a few of his own tears from falling. "I know, Bruce. I'm here."

"I want mom…"

He held the boy closer to his chest. "I know, sir. I know."

Gradually, the shuddering breaths began to taper, yet the child said nothing more. He clung to Alfred tightly, yet his head had fallen limp against the older man's shoulder, and Alfred could see that exhaustion was getting the better of him. He continued to rock the boy in his lap, holding him as one would a toddler. He made soft shushing noises as he went, lulling the boy to sleep in his arms.

At long last, Alfred eased the boy back into bed, sleeping soundly once more. Taking a seat alongside the bed, he realized that there was no way he could let himself fall asleep the rest of the night—not with the risk of Bruce waking again in such a state.

Thus, he was left alone with his thoughts, watching over the sleeping child in front of him.

"My brave, brave boy," he whispered. "My brave, brave boy."


End file.
